


Things time can't touch

by alterocentrist



Category: Booksmart (2019)
Genre: Alternate Ending, College, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 18:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20999045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alterocentrist/pseuds/alterocentrist
Summary: That summer after graduation, Hope never replied to Amy's messages.Years later, she's a student journalist in her last year at NYU and she's assigned to interview a group of student activists.Kind of a slow burn, inspired by Sally Rooney and my favourite indie films.





	Things time can't touch

There were six unread messages on Hope’s phone when she got out of her two-hour studio class.

They all came from Cameron, news editor of _ Washington Square News _. 

After reading the messages, she decides to call him. He picks up immediately. “Hey, Cam, sorry, I was in class,” she begins.

“So can you do it?” Cameron asks. “I know it’s short notice.”

“Sure, I’ve got all my stuff here,” Hope says. “Just text me the address.”

On the other end of the line, Cameron breathes out a relieved sigh. “I knew I could count on you, Hope,” he says. “Thanks so much.” He hangs up, and not even fifteen seconds afterwards, he sends through the address for a coffee shop.

Hope finds an empty bench in the corridor. She’s pretty sure she’s got all her stuff, but she sits down to double check anyway. This isn’t the first time that this has happened to her, so she’s learned to be prepared. She runs a hand through the inside of her backpack, checking that she’s got her camera, her notebook, her recording equipment, and her MetroCard.

She puts her bag back on. She plugs in the address into Google Maps and makes her way to the nearest subway station.

* * *

On the subway, Hope reads through Cameron’s texts again, and tries to do some research on her phone, which proves a bit fruitless because of the spotty 4G. By the time she reaches her stop, she knows that she’s going to be talking to people from a student-led organisation that’s promoting workers’ rights and union membership among their fellow students. The organisation isn’t based in one particular school; it’s a joint effort from a number of colleges around the city, mostly from City College and Fordham, and a good chunk of NYU students, too.

Hope is running through potential questions, prompts and conversation threads in her brain when she arrives outside the coffee shop. She checks the time on her phone. She’s fifteen minutes early, which is great. Hope has done enough interviews with student activists to know that some of them are the annoyingly punctual sort. She steps inside the coffee shop and looks around, trying to figure out who her interviewees would be.

And then her eyes land on a familiar head of auburn hair, alone, hunched over a phone and a latte.

“Amy?”

Amy looks up. Her eyes flash in surprise. “Hope?”

“Hey.” Hope scratches the back of her neck. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Amy says, a little stiffly. “It’s been a while, huh?”

“Uh, yeah.” Hope feels a little sheepish. It’s her senior year at NYU, which means that she’s been in the same city as Amy for the last three years, and this is the first time they’ve seen each other. She takes note of the fact that Amy is sitting at a table set up for a larger group. “Are you waiting for anyone?” She imagines that a study group, a bunch of pre-law gunners, would come through the door any minute now.

“Yeah, but you can sit down if you like.” Amy gestures to the seat across from her.

Hope obliges, taking her backpack off and balancing it on her lap. “Uh, so what have you been up to?” she asks.

“Oh, you know.” Amy shrugs. “Getting through college and living my best life here in New York.” She smiles. It’s the same shy, good-natured smile she had in high school, when she used to make jokes without being certain if they would land.

“Amy, hey,” another voice cuts through the buzz of the coffee shop. A girl with curly hair comes up from behind Hope and sits beside Amy. “Did Jamie text you?” she asks. She briefly glances at Hope but continues talking to Amy. “Apparently he’s come down with the measles.”

At this, Hope’s stomach drops.

Amy’s brow furrows. “The measles? That’s unfortunate,” she says. “So the interview’s off?”

“Oh, no, he’s told his editor and they’re sending a replacement,” the girl says. She looks at Hope again, and extends a hand. “Hi, we haven’t met. I’m Mariana.”

Before Hope could respond, Amy introduces her: “Mariana, this is Hope. We went to high school together, back in LA.”

Mariana grins. “Wow, for real? That’s cool.” She shakes Hope’s hand enthusiastically. “You go to school here as well?”

Hope nods. “Yup, at NYU.” She clears her throat. “Actually, I’m Jamie’s replacement today.” She opens her backpack and pulls out her notebook, pens and voice recorder. She doesn’t miss the way Amy’s eyes are widening. She chooses to direct her question to Mariana: “How many more people are we expecting?”

* * *

Two other people from the organisation, both NYU students, eventually arrived. They ordered drinks, and then Hope started the interview. She tried to focus on the task at hand, to really engage with what they were saying, but her attention kept straying to Amy. There were a couple of times where she missed taking down a soundbite. She silently thanked herself for bringing her recorder along.

After concluding the interview portion, Hope suggests that they wander over to Central Park for some photographs. They gather their things and walk there as a group. Hope chooses to trail behind them, notebook and pen in hand, as if prepared for an idea to strike her on the five-minute walk there. She spends it watching Amy instead.

Amy’s dressed like she’s ready to be photographed. Her hair is even in a purposely messy bun. She’s wearing olive green chinos, deliberately cuffed over maroon Converse high tops, with a light wash men’s denim jacket that’s just the slightest bit oversized. The jacket, Hope notices, is a different one from the one she wore in high school. The main giveaway is the lack of patches. Underneath the jacket is a blue, short-sleeved button-down shirt. It’s a more grown-up look, but it’s still the Amy that Hope remembers.

Hope takes their portraits individually, and then does a couple of group shots. She stages a few photos of them sitting on the grass, bags open, laptops and notebooks out, engaged in conversation. Hope thinks that they seem like a good bunch of people. Maybe a little too serious, but they loosened up around Hope eventually.

It’s nearly four PM when they wrap up. Hope gives Mariana her contact details, so she can keep her updated on the article. They thank Hope before dispersing in different directions. Except for Amy.

“It’s nice seeing you today, Hope,” she says. “I didn’t expect you to be a student journalist.”

“Neither did I, to be honest,” Hope says. She gestures awkwardly at Amy. “But I kind of predicted that you’d be involved in activism of some sort.”

Amy chuckles. “That’s me. Predictable,” she says. She looks briefly at the ground, then raises her gaze to meet Hope’s. “Do you wanna go somewhere and catch up? We can get like, a snack or something.”

Hope instinctively checks the time on her phone. As soon as she does so, Amy frowns. “Sorry!” Hope exclaims. “I don’t mean to be rude. I would _ love _to... but I’ve actually got a meeting at five back on campus, and I need to start heading there.” Amy’s frown just deepens. “Maybe next time?”

“Okay,” Amy says skeptically. “Do you still have the same number?”

“Yep,” Hope answers.

“Same here,” Amy says. “Text me when you’re free.”

“I will,” Hope says.

To Hope’s surprise, Amy steps forward to give her a hug. It’s weird and quick, with the straps of their backpacks getting in the way. When she lets go, she waves at Hope. “I’ll see you later,” she says, before walking away.

Hope gets back on the subway. She goes to her meeting, which is uneventful, and then she goes home to the apartment she’s sharing with friends. She fixes herself some dinner. Over a bowl of leftover pasta, she looks Amy up on Instagram. She still has a private account. Hope requests to follow.

* * *

_ WSN _publishes the article two weeks later. The social media staff posts about the article of Instagram, using one of Hope’s photos of the group sitting and talking on the grass. At the tail-end of her morning lecture, Hope shares the post on her story, and then messages the article link to Mariana. She sends the link to Amy, too.

_ Awesome, thanks! _Amy replies, almost immediately.

Hope’s free for the rest of the day. She texts Amy: _ Do you want to grab lunch? _

They agree on a vegetarian place on the Upper West Side. Amy gets there before Hope, standing outside in the same shoes and jacket from two weeks ago, but with faded black jeans. Her thumbs are hooked on the chunky straps of her bright red backpack. She grins when she spots Hope, and goes in for another hug.

“Hey,” Hope says.

“Hey,” Amy says. “Let’s go in. I’m like, super hungry.” She opens the door and lets Hope in first.

* * *

Amy has a lot to say. That’s not new; Amy’s always had plenty to say, once she gets going. She talks about Columbia, about studying history and politics, about how she joined the debating society and got to travel to a handful of competitions. She talks about Molly, and with that, Hope is able to contribute more to the conversation, as she hears about Molly quite regularly through Annabelle. Hope realises that she and Amy have been revolving around the periphery of Molly-and-Annabelle-in-New-Haven without taking the opportunity to be Hope-and-Amy-in-New-York.

Amy asks a lot of questions too. She asks Hope about NYU, asks if she’s travelled recently. Finally, leaning over her half-finished tofu rice bowl, she says: “I have to admit. I Googled your other articles… I’m actually so impressed. You weren’t on the newspaper in high school.”

“I fell into _ WSN _ completely by chance,” Hope says.

“Yeah?” Amy prompts.

“A friend of mine from class was one of their gig reviewers back in sophomore year, but one week she had a family emergency and had to fly home to Portugal. She gave me the press pass and the tickets to a gig that she was gonna miss. She said I could try covering for her,” Hope tells Amy. “I go to the gig with my camera, get a handful of good shots, and I send them to the editor and she asks if I could write a review as well. They end up liking what I did so they kept me on, even after my friend came back.”

“How was the music at the gig anyway?” Amy asks.

“Sad rock boy shit,” Hope replies, feeling a little proud that Amy laughs in response.

“And the rest as they say is history?”

“Guess so.” Hope nods. 

“So you’ve never considered journalism for yourself?”

“There’s a reason why I wasn’t on the newspaper or on the yearbook committee in high school, Amy. I thought that kind of stuff was for nerds,” Hope says.

“Hey, I didn’t click at the time, but nobody else in class would have made a presentation comparing _ A Separate Peace _ to _ Prep _. Or that essay you wrote that Miss Fine read out? About the use of leisure scenes in Sally Rooney and Jane Austen? And she insisted that it was written by ‘Anonymous’, but everyone knew it could only have been you.” Amy laughs. “You were a freakin’ nerd, Hope. Lean into it.”

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Hope says. _ She’s _ forgotten about it.

“I’ve got a decent memory,” Amy says. “Any grand plans to write for _ The New Yorker _?”

Hope snorts. “I don’t know what gives me better job prospects. My upcoming BFA in photography? Or writing for _ WSN _?” she asks jokingly.

“Shit, that’s right, you’re graduating this year,” Amy says. “Got anything lined up?”

“I did this internship at the Museum of Jewish Heritage last year, and I’ve got some contacts through there, so hopefully I can get something going before graduation,” Hope says. “I wanna work for a museum or some other organisation that’s into archiving and documenting… I was thinking of doing some oral histories, along with portraits and environmental shots. I guess I wanna be at a place that lets me do something like that.” She exhales loudly, involuntarily. She’s never said any of this out loud.

Amy considers that for a moment. “That sounds awesome, actually.”

“And if nothing works out on that front, I can go back to LA and take senior portraits.” Hope’s half-serious about this one. Her fallback plan is to ask her dad to ask his sister, who is a casting agent, to send aspiring actors to her for headshots. She’s bound to get some income that way, and get her name out there, too. Hope smirks as a thought comes to her. “Or I could move to Austin or Atlanta or Portland and publish zines or something,” she adds.

This makes Amy erupt in laughter. “Come on,” she says. “You and like a thousand other people.”

“Yep, all the poor suckers with BFAs,” Hope says. “What about you? You’re in your junior year, right? Still set on law school?”

“Law school was always more of Molly’s thing. It was an option, but I was never set on it,” Amy says.

“Past tense?”

Amy nods. “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t really know what I want to do yet, but I know I’m not going to law school. I mean, can you really imagine me as a lawyer?” She gestures to herself, with her dishevelled hair and fraying beige sweater.

Now that Amy points it out, Hope realises that this is the way she’s always liked her. Self-deprecating and rough around the edges. Principled but diplomatic. Keenly intelligent but won’t be the first to show it. “You’re doing good work with your organisation,” Hope tells her. “Have the unions come calling?”

“They have.” A hint of a blush colours Amy’s cheeks. “But I’m not sure if I wanna go down that road, too. It’s compelling, though.” She straightens up in her seat. “You know, in freshman year, I volunteered for Ocasio-Cortez’s campaign. I enjoyed that. So that’s an option as well.”

“Labour organiser or political operative… Hmm,” Hope says. “You’ll be great at whatever you do, I’m sure.”

“You’ve got an awful lot of faith in me,” Amy says.

“And _ you’re _easily impressed by like, a dozen bylines,” Hope retorts.

“Pretty sure there were more than a dozen, but who’s counting?” Amy shoots back.

Hope leans back in her seat. “Wow, I guess I’ve earned myself a fangirl.”

Amy doesn’t shrink in embarrassment like Hope somehow expected her to. Instead, she sets her jaw, and says, earnestly: “I just think what you’re doing is really cool and that you should be proud of it.” She shrugs. “If that makes me a fangirl, then I guess I am.”

* * *

Her phone alerts her to a message from Amy as she gets off the subway on the way home. _ Thanks for the lovely lunch _ , the message reads, _ Hope we can hang out again soon _.

There’s an Instagram notification, too. Amy has taken a screenshot of the article and posted it on her story, along with a typed caption: _ Interviewed by none other than @hopecarlin for @nyunews! Go read it! _

* * *

Hope and Amy start texting each other throughout the day, mostly random thoughts and stories from their own lives. They’re both busy, but somehow arrange to have coffee or go for a walk around Central Park once a week. Neither of them acknowledge the routine that’s being established.

Amy invites Hope to see a panel discussion at City College. The panel focuses on urban planning for social equity. A quarter of the way through the discussion, Hope takes her notebook out and begins taking down notes. She can feel Amy watching her.

After the panel, they walk back to the subway together. Hope’s got her hands stuffed in the pockets of her bomber jacket, while Amy’s thumbs tap quickly on her phone.

Amy slips her phone into her jacket pocket. “Are you gonna write something for _ WSN _ about that panel?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I have to pitch it to my editor first,” Hope says. “I have to think of a way to make it relevant to NYU somehow.”

“You could do a feature, maybe, of like, how inequality is built into the city,” Amy suggests. She shakes her head. “Just spitballing.”

“Yeah, maybe, something like that,” Hope says. She’s sure that the subject has been covered to death, but perhaps she could come at it from a different angle. She makes a mental note to do more research when she gets home. “Maybe something that’s like, photo-dominated, but not quite a photo essay.” 

“Sounds promising,” Amy says. “Hey, you know NYU and Columbia finish earlier than Yale for winter break?”

“Yeah?” Hope’s a little confused. It’s not even November yet.

“Yeah, I don’t know if Annabelle’s told you.”

“She didn’t,” Hope says.

“When classes finish, I’m going to take the train to New Haven and hang out with them, and then head back to LA together,” Amy says. “Have you booked your tickets home yet?”

Hope shakes her head.

“Well, you should come with me. It’ll be a lot of fun, the four of us together,” Amy says. Self-consciously, she hooks her thumbs through her backpack straps. “Uh, if you want to, that is. And if you’re available. No pressure.”

“Sure, I’d love to go.” Hope gives Amy her best reassuring smile. “I’m not in any hurry to get back to LA, really.”

“Great!” This comes out high and squeaky, causing Amy to clear her throat. “Should I text Annabelle or will you do it?” she asks.

“I’ll text her,” Hope says. 

* * *

Hope never goes home for Thanksgiving. Growing up, her parents always worked during Thanksgiving, so it was never really a holiday for her. She’s taken to spending it with her college friends. They did away with most of the traditional Thanksgiving feast and they would have a potluck instead.

When Amy told Hope that she didn’t go home for Thanksgiving either, because with Christmas so soon, it didn’t make sense to drop that amount of money twice in the space of a month, the invitation was out of Hope’s mouth before she could even think about it.

“Really? Your friends won’t mind?” Amy had asked.

“It’s sort of an everyone kinda thing,” Hope told her. “Besides, it’s gonna be at my apartment, so… It’d be really nice if you came along.”

Amy agreed.

Early evening on Thanksgiving, Amy turns up at Hope’s apartment, carrying a dish in a canvas bag. “It’s vegan cheesecake,” she explains, as Hope collects it from her.

Hope tells Amy to hang her coat on the tree and join them in the living room. She puts the cheesecake in the fridge and then introduces Amy to her friends. “Do you want something to drink?” Hope asks her. “We’ve got wine, beer, cocktails…”

Amy asks for wine, and Hope goes to get her a glass.

Dinner goes well. Hope and her friends have done this for years; they’ve got a routine down. They put the dishes away, take out the dessert plates and brew a pot of tea . Someone hooks up the Chromecast to the TV and plays early 2000s music videos on YouTube instead of the football game.

At some point during the night, Hope and Amy end up on the couch beside each other. It’s a small couch, so Hope is practically jammed in the corner, with Amy squeezed in next to her, right inside her personal bubble. Yet Hope doesn’t feel cramped or uncomfortable. Neither does Amy. She’s relaxed against her, like she’s barely even registered their close proximity.

Hope thinks that back in high school, Amy would have thought that this was a huge fucking deal. Because back in high school, Hope would have, too.

“Fuck,” Amy mutters under her breath at the end of the night, when everyone’s collected leftovers to take home and are putting their coats and shoes on.

“What’s up?” Hope asks.

“Surge pricing on Uber is insane, nearly cab prices,” Amy says. She pinches the bridge of her nose, and then asks Hope’s friends: “Any of you taking the subway towards Columbia?” Hope can understand Amy’s hesitation to take transit alone at this time of night. The subway has its share of characters even in daylight hours.

They shake their heads. One of Hope’s roommates, Jasper, speaks up with a suggestion: “Why don’t you just stay here tonight? We don’t mind.”

Amy looks at Hope. “You sure?”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Hope says. “It’s like, super late, and there are all sorts of weirdos out there, especially since it’s Black Friday tomorrow. I think you’d be better off trying to get home in the morning.”

“Cool, thanks,” Amy says, looking genuinely grateful.

They sleep in the same bed. Hope tries not to make a big deal out of it. She likes how chill Amy has become, quite different from how she was back then, but she doesn’t know the limits of this newfound ease, and she doesn’t want to spook Amy. All sorts of explanations—she’s a very still sleeper, she won’t even notice Amy there at all, she was lucky enough to get a discount on a queen bed—fall out of her mouth, and she’s aware that she’s the one that’s starting to sound nervous. But once she gets under the covers, it’s suddenly hard to fall asleep. She’s chalking it up to the buzz of the evening, of socialising with friends over copious amounts of food and drink, but beside her, Amy is already sleeping soundly.

* * *

The train from Penn Station to New Haven is supposed to take just under two hours. After her last class before winter break, Hope stops by her apartment to pick up her duffel bag, and then she makes her way to Penn Station to meet up with Amy.

Predictably, Amy’s already there. Together, they get their tickets and find their platform to board the train. Amy takes the window seat while Hope places their duffels on the overhead luggage rack.

Hope sits down and stows her backpack under the seat in front of her. She watches as Amy is digging through her own backpack, which looks like it belongs to a Girl Scout more than it belongs to a college student. She snorts. “You’re aware that you look like a German tourist with that thing, right?” she jokes.

“At least this bag makes me look like I’ve actually been outdoors,” Amy says, glancing down at Hope’s backpack. “Yours just looks like you just enjoy the _ idea _of the outdoors.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that. That’s a pretty fair assessment,” Hope agrees, lightly kicking her backpack, which has never touched dirt, except for the dirt in Central Park. “But for you? I don’t think Griffith Park counts as the great outdoors.”

“Oh, shut up, I bought this before I went to a debating tournament in Croatia. We had time in our itinerary to go hiking and go to the beach,” Amy tells her, as she zips up the backpack and slides it under the seat in front. “My old one was like, on the verge of falling apart, so I just went to REI and got what was on sale.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the conductor talking on the PA system. The train doors hiss shut, and they begin moving out of Penn Station.

“Croatia, huh?” Hope says, when the conductor finally concludes his spiel. “Did you have a good time there?”

“Oh, yeah, it was insanely beautiful,” Amy says. “Did you go? That summer after graduation?”

Hope shakes her head. “They don’t use the euro, and I was trying to be practical,” she says. “I kinda regret not going. I didn’t realise that exchanging money wasn’t actually that difficult, and like, things were cheaper there anyway.”

“I suppose things like that can be a bit harder to figure out when you’re doing the thinking alone,” Amy says.

“Yeah, it was a bit of that,” Hope says. She changes the subject. “Have you visited them in New Haven before?”

Amy nods. “Yeah, a few times,” she says. “Molly’s come to see me just twice, but we’ve spent all our Christmas breaks together anyway. It’s not cheap to come to New York... How about you? Have you been to New Haven?”

“No.” Hope thinks about how Annabelle’s visited her fairly regularly in New York. “Annabelle thinks there’s not much to do there anyway, so she prefers to come to me instead.”

“Fair enough, but I’d argue that New Haven’s got a charm of its own,” Amy says.

It’s dark when they get there. Molly and Annabelle meet them at the station.

“We borrowed a friend’s car,” Annabelle tells them.

Molly laughs. “Sure, if by friend, you mean your flavour of the month,” she says.

“I will _ not _be slut-shamed!” Annabelle retorts.

Hope wants to say that she’s happy to see them, but Amy gets there first.

Whooping gleefully, Molly throws an arm around Amy’s shoulders. “And we’re happy to see _ you _, too, Amy.” She plants a big, wet kiss on Amy’s cheek. “Man, I missed you! I really don’t know how I’ve managed to live without seeing you every day.”

They reach a black SUV, which Annabelle unlocks with a keyfob. She opens the back door and directs Hope and Amy to throw their stuff inside. “Shut up, Davidson,” she says. “You know I take good care of you.” She turns to Amy. “Me and Molly? We’re practically married.”

Amy laughs.

“Yeah, I’m the long-suffering wife and you’re the one who goes off into the night with your secret love affairs,” Molly says. She clutches at her chest, her face contorting in mock anguish. “Worse still, is when you bring them to our house!”

“Guys.” Hope shoves her hands in the pockets of her parka, ignoring the curious look that Molly shoots her. “Freezing my ass off here.”

The four of them climb into the SUV, with Annabelle behind the wheel. “Did you guys have anything to eat on the train?” Molly asks. “We were thinking of taking you out for pizza.”

“Pizza sounds good, yeah,” Amy replies.

The pizza place is exactly how Hope imagined a college town’s local pizzeria, right down to the polyester tablecloths and the staff who appeared to be from the same extended family. They talk a lot over dinner, mostly about what Molly and Annabelle have been up to at Yale. Hope learns that Annabelle’s on the dean’s list (again), and that Molly is still set on her path to becoming the youngest Justice on the Supreme Court.

After dinner, they pile back in the SUV and drive to the duplex townhouse that Molly and Annabelle share. “So you’re gonna be staying in Molly’s room,” Hope hears Annabelle tell Amy. “And Hope’s gonna stay with me.” Annabelle’s voice raises, to call out to Hope: “Is that okay with you, Hope?”

“‘Course it is,” Hope says. It’s not like she’s expecting to sleep with Amy.

Molly emerges from the kitchen, holding a bottle of wine in each hand. “Should we get into our pyjamas and put some Netflix on?” she suggests, although with Molly, even from Hope’s limited exposure to her, nothing is actually just a suggestion.

They go to bed quite late, with both Molly and Annabelle half-heartedly complaining about getting through their classes the next day. No one’s drunk, but the wine sends everyone to sleep quickly and easily.

Hope wakes up the next morning to the sounds of Annabelle getting ready.

Annabelle’s already dressed in jeans and a cute sweater, and she’s tossing things into her backpack. She notices that Hope’s awake. “Sorry, am I being too loud?” she asks.

“No, you’re okay,” Hope says. She rubs her eyes. “What time do your classes finish?”

“I should be out by midday, but I’ve got a lunch meeting that I have to be at before I come home,” Annabelle tells her. “Molly just has the one class today, so she should be heading back here before then.” She chuckles. “Don’t make that face. Molly’s great. Takes a bit of getting used to, but I’m sure she’ll make the effort. So should you.”

“Hey.” Hope pouts. “What makes you think I won’t make the effort?”

Annabelle rifles through her drawers for a balled-up pair of socks. She unrolls them and slips them onto each foot, bracing herself on drawers for support. When she’s got both socks on, she puts her hands on her hips and looks thoughtfully at Hope. “You’re right,” she says. “You’re going to make an effort because you want to impress Amy.”

“What do you mean ‘I’m right’? I didn’t say anything about impressing Amy,” Hope protests.

“You don’t need to.” Annabelle slings her bag over one shoulder. “There’s toast and cereal in the kitchen, help yourselves.”

“For the record, I’m going to make an effort because we’re not high school anymore.”

Annabelle smirks. “Whatever you say, Carlin,” she says. “Go back to sleep, if you want. I’ll see you later.”

* * *

It’s a cold day, with overcast skies, but Hope and Amy choose to spend it out at Lighthouse Point Park. They even pack a lunch from what they find in Molly and Annabelle’s pantry. Amy prepared the egg and cheese sandwiches, and Hope microwaved popcorn and portioned it between two containers.

“You know, I’ve known Annabelle since middle school and I didn’t think she’d be the type to go to college in a town like this,” Hope says to Amy. “She’s just so… larger than life.”

“Don’t you think that’s part of it?” Amy asks. “Like, New York can be so big and dirty and anonymous.”

“It’s also a damn good place to have a party,” Hope says.

“Maybe why Annabelle is steering clear of it,” Amy suggests.

“When I moved to New York, I was amazed at how fast you could disappear into a crowd,” Hope says. She remembers crossing the street at a Manhattan intersection during rush hour and feeling practically carried by the wave of people. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s not for Annabelle.”

“I think Molly likes the grandeur of being at Yale,” Amy says. “There’s a big fish, small pond element there.”

“I’m not sure that’s the appropriate comparison for Molly at _ Yale _.”

Amy shakes her head. “No, you’re misunderstanding,” she says. “The big fish _ is _Yale, by being located where it is. It’s not like Columbia, which is like, part of the landscape of this metropolis.” As they emerge from some tree cover to a view of the lighthouse, Amy exhales. “You gotta admit that this is gorgeous, though.”

“Yeah, Central Park’s got nothing on this.” The lighthouse stands impressively in the early winter grey. Hope’s not been to Scotland yet, but she imagines it would be something similar. Beside her, Amy flips up the collar of her peacoat. “Too cold?” Hope asks.

“It’s all right,” Amy says. “We should have lunch here.” She nods towards an empty picnic table.

“Are you sure? You don’t want to go back somewhere a little warmer?” Hope asks.

Amy smiles at her. “Look at you, getting all hesitant about being exposed to the elements.,” she teases. She takes her hand out of her pocket and pokes Hope in the upper arm. “Come on, your Californian is showing.”

Hope wrinkles her nose. “I resent that. We’re outdoorsy in reasonable weather conditions.”

“Hey, you said it yourself. Griffith Park doesn’t count as the outdoors,” Amy retorts.

“Oh, fuck off,” Hope mutters. Yet she follows Amy to the picnic table and together, they start unpacking their lunch. The popcorn and the sandwiches come out from Amy’s bag, while Hope takes out a thermos and two camping mugs from her bag. She twists the thermos open and pours hot chocolate into each of the mugs. It’s still steaming hot, the simple pleasure of which makes Hope smile.

Amy sits down and waits for Hope to do the same before unwrapping one of the sandwiches. “This reminds me of elementary school,” she says. “In a good way.”

Hope scoffs. “What was _ good _about elementary school?”

“No term papers, or GPAs, or part-time jobs,” Amy says.

“Okay, fair,” Hope says.

“I don’t remember you during elementary school,” Amy says.

“We lived in a different neighbourhood. I transferred midway through fourth grade, when my mum moved hospitals and we were too far away from my old school,” Hope explains. “We all came through the same schools, you know… You, me, Molly, Annabelle, Nick, George…”

“I remember them,” Amy says. “I didn’t notice you until high school, though.”

“If it helps, I didn’t notice you until high school either,” Hope admits.

“I’m a late bloomer. Doing all those extracurriculars in high school raised my profile,” Amy says.

Hope can’t disagree with that. But she could argue that Amy didn’t even bloom during high school. She did, though, sometime between high school and now. “I’m a late bloomer, too, I think,” she says.

“You were like, six feet tall in junior year,” Amy says.

“Excuse you, I was never six feet tall. I’m only like, five-ten,” Hope says. “And I mean, I’m a late bloomer in the social sense. I never really had a crowd in high school. I had friends, sure, but I couldn’t say that I belonged anywhere.”

“Do you ever wish we were friends in high school?” Amy asks.

Hope thinks about it. How different would her life be if her and Amy had been friends back in LA? It’s something that crosses her mind often. “Yeah, sometimes I do,” she finally says. “But I think it worked out much better this way.”

Amy thoughtfully chews on a bite of her sandwich and swallows it before asking her next question: “How so?”

“I was a dick in high school. I wanted to argue with everyone,” Hope says. “And you, you were all diplomatic and shit. Like, I was pretty sure you were straight up campaigning for a Nobel Prize or something, and you probably deserved it, just for being friends with Molly.” She chuckles. “We argued a lot, don’t you remember? In English, and in AP World History.”

Amy laughs. “Hey, I was idealistic,” she says, shrugging.

“And I was just an edgy pessimist,” Hope says.

“And now?”

“I’m in the middle between that and idealism,” Hope says. “Despite everything going on.”

Amy nods. “I think I’m about the same,” she says.

Hope finishes her sandwich and washes it down with hot chocolate. She wipes her hands on her jeans, and then reaches inside her bag for her hand sanitiser. She doesn’t miss the way Amy’s eyes glint in amusement over her routine. She puts the hand sanitiser back and takes her camera out. She never touches it with dirty hands. “Let me take your picture,” she says to Amy.

“Why?” Amy self-consciously hunches her shoulders, making herself look smaller.

“Come on, sit up,” Hope tells her. She gets off the bench and takes a few steps backwards. She lines Amy up in the viewfinder.

“I’m eating,” Amy protests.

“So?” Hope lowers the camera slightly. “It’s supposed to be candid.”

“Like that time in Central Park?”

“Exactly like that time in Central Park,” Hope says.

“Do you always have your camera on you?” Amy’s still slouched over the picnic table, but she’s already brushing crumbs off her coat.

“I’m a photography major, Amy. Duh.” Hope brings the camera to her eye again to compose the shot. She gets down on one knee. She wants the lighthouse in the background. “Besides, you never know when a good story is gonna come up.”

“Oh yeah, remember that panel we went to at City College?” Amy asks. As she asks the question, she straightens her posture, perhaps automatically, and there’s a hint of an excitable smile on her face.

“‘Course I do.” Hope makes sure Amy is in focus and presses the shutter button just as quickly.

Amy jumps a little at the sound. “Hope!” She tries to look annoyed but fails.

At this, Hope presses the shutter button again.

“Come on!”

Hope turns the camera off and returns to the picnic table. She carefully packs the camera in her bag. She looks up to Amy staring at her. “What?” she asks.

“You’re not even going to show me the photos?” Amy asks.

“Some patience would do you good,” Hope says. She opens her container of popcorn and eats a few at a time, enjoying the buttery crunch. “You know those documentaries on Netflix, about some artist or politician or some other important person?”

“Yeah?”

“And they’re talking about their college years or whatever, and then the documentary would always cut from like, a talking head to a series of photos of them in college, just doing stuff. Like, sitting on the steps of some ivy-covered building, or holding a protest sign out in the quad,” Hope says. “And the photos chosen are always the ones were they look kinda dorky but at the same time, the audience can see the beginning of someone who was gonna be influential someday.”

Amy hums in agreement, her eyes locked somewhere far away, as if she’s imagining what Hope is describing. “I know what you mean,” she says.

“Well, these photos that I’ve taken of you… I hope somebody chooses them to be in _ your _documentary one day,” Hope says.

“Wait, wait, hang on, why would people be making a documentary about me?” Amy asks.

“Why wouldn’t they? Aren’t you gonna like, single-handedly revive the union movement?” Hope teases.

“Nobody single-hands a movement,” Amy says.

At this, Hope smirks. “Really? I can think of a few.”

Amy’s eyes widen. “Hope!” she exclaims.

“You walked right into that one,” Hope says, laughing.

Now Amy’s laughing, too. “I _ did _,” she says. “I don’t know why I had such a prudish reaction right then. I should be more comfortable, given our history.” She lets the words hang in the air, and her face has taken on an uncharacteristically smug expression.

Hope groans. “Oh god.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Why’d you remind me of that?” But really, it’s not like she’s ever forgotten.

“I thought enough time has passed!” Amy’s voice drops. “Don’t worry, it hasn’t really ruined any sexual experiences I’ve had since.”

“Oh.” Hope remains curious about what Amy’s been up to in the years between now and graduation, but she’s not a pushy person, so everything she knows so far has been learned from organic conversation. She knows Amy has dated a fair few girls in New York, but they’ve never talked about each other’s sex lives. It’s not a topic Hope was thinking of ever broaching with Amy. Partly because she doesn’t want to embarrass her like that.

And partly because she doesn’t want to talk about how everything turned out after that night.

* * *

Molly and Annabelle turn out to be decent cooks together.

Annabelle’s always had an affinity for cooking, but Hope assumed that her free-wheeling ways and Molly’s control freak tendencies would spell disaster in the kitchen. The vegetarian-appropriate weeknight dinner that they prepared proved otherwise. Hope and Amy set the table, and they all sit around it to eat.

“This looks great.” Amy scoops couscous onto her own plate, and then, without asking, reaches across to pick up Hope’s plate and starts scooping couscous on there, too. “Is this enough?” she asks Hope, showing her the serving.

“Just a little bit more,” Hope says.

Amy complies, and puts the plate in front of Hope.

Hope catches Molly looking at her. “Uh, could you pass me the mushrooms, please?” she asks.

“Sure.” Molly lifts the plate of mushrooms towards Hope.

“Thanks,” Hope says.

After dinner, they sit around the table, too engaged in conversation to start putting the plates away. 

“What I can’t believe is how the reaction to _ American Factory _played out like that, like people read it more as ‘China is beating us at capitalism because their workers have a better mindset’, rather than, ‘hey, maybe nobody should be fucking working like this,’” Molly says. 

“We’ve got a messed up relationship with work and employers,” Hope says.

Amy pouts. “Economics is fake, I’m pretty sure.”

At this, Annabelle becomes somewhat incensed. “Fake? It’s fucking insane! I was reading over my notes from freshman year, and right there, during the very first lesson, we learned about GDP. And like, I marked the definition with an asterisk, and at the bottom of the page, I wrote something like, ‘doesn’t take inequality and overall well-being into account. Because that’s what the professor said!’ And _ yet _!” Annabelle slaps the tabletop emphatically. “What do we keep using as a primary indicator for development?”

“GDP,” Amy says, snapping her fingers.

“Exactly!” Annabelle exclaims. “They know it’s broken, but they don’t fix it, because it serves them!”

“So, why didn’t you change major?” Hope asks.

“I can’t think of any other subject I’d get a four-point-oh GPA in.” Annabelle shrugs in her typical fashion as the others snicker. “And I thought if I wanted to take the system down, I should learn the rules front to back. Did Amy tell you? We were talking about starting a chapter of her organisation up here. Collaborate with the other colleges in the area.”

“That sounds awesome,” Hope says. She knows it would also cause a massive headache for Annabelle’s parents, which would bring Annabelle great joy. A hedge fund manager and a Los Angeles socialite with a left-wing activist daughter? Hope’s looking forward to hearing how they’ll react.

“Speaking of Amy’s organisation...” Molly stands up to retrieve her iPad from the coffee table. She sits back down, tapping rapidly on the screen. “We read your article in the _ Washington Square News _.” She shows everyone else the screen, scrolls down to Hope’s portrait of Amy. “Hey, now, doesn’t our Amy look so beautiful in this one?”

Looking at it takes Hope back to that afternoon, seeing Amy for the first time in years, and she remembers thinking about how to portray Amy through her lens. She wanted to capture the keen intelligence in Amy’s eyes, the determination in the way she sets her jaw, the energy of her gestures. Looking at the photograph, months after she took it, Hope’s glad to see that she succeeded.

“What can I say?” Amy shrugs, and looks straight at Hope. “Hope is a very talented photographer.”

* * *

One morning, neither Molly nor Annabelle had classes, so they set off to the Peabody Museum of Natural History together. There’s something about the place that ignited the inner kid in all of them. They walk around, reading the displays, giggling and taking photos.

At one point, Annabelle and Amy wander off together, leaving Hope alone with Molly.

The past few days have proven that Molly Davidson, in fact, is capable of being good company. She’s still forceful and over-the-top at times, but Hope hasn’t found her annoying like she used to. Perhaps Molly has mellowed, or Hope has grown more patient, or a combination of both.

But they had never been alone together. Annabelle or Amy were always around.

“So, it took you long enough to catch up with Amy,” Molly says.

“Sorry?”

“She’s wanted to get in touch with you for ages, you know. We had so many conversations where she’d, like, talk herself in a circle about whether she should send you a text or an email. Eventually she stopped talking about it, and I just assumed that she’s given up or moved on,” Molly tells her. “But here you are.”

Hope’s first instinct is to be defensive, until she realises that there’s no malice or anger in Molly’s voice. And Molly’s voice _ always _gives her away. She decides to be honest. “I wanted to get in touch with her, too,” she says. “I just kept putting it off, and then the next thing I know, I get assigned to a last-minute interview and she’s there.”

She expects Molly to ask why she never contacted Amy, but instead, Molly nods. “So both of you were being dumb about making the first move,” she says. “I generally don’t believe in fate or destiny, but I gotta say, it’s pretty cool how you got pushed together again by pure coincidence.” She does a scan of their surroundings, presumably for Annabelle and Amy, and then continues, “I don’t hold it against you, by the way. Annabelle kinda hinted at what’s up, why you just basically ghosted Amy, and I understand.”

“Annabelle told you?”

Molly shrugs. “I was looking out for Amy, and Annabelle was looking out for you,” she says. “She didn’t tell me everything. She says it wasn’t her story to tell and I accepted that.” Molly stops walking, causing Hope to do the same. “You and Amy haven’t talked about it, though.”

“It hasn’t come up,” Hope says.

“That’s because she’s keeping it from coming up,” Molly says.

“Now, why would she do that?”

Molly scoffs. “Come on, Hope. Underneath all that activist bluster, she’s still Amy,” she says. “She’s not bringing it up because she doesn’t want to scare you off.” She exhales sharply. “And _ no _, she hasn’t said anything to me about it. I know her like the back of my hand, and I know she’s just not accepting this new friendship between the two of you at face value. She’s just acting like she is because she doesn’t want you to get skittish.”

“Me? _ Skittish _?” Hope laughs humourlessly. “Don’t pretend you know me, Molly.”

Instead of responding with her hackles raised, Molly, surprisingly, takes a placid tone. “Hey, Hope, come on, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so judgemental,” she says. “I’m just saying, if something like this hasn’t come up, then there’s a chance that Amy’s still stewing about it. And you know what she’s like. If you wanna clear the air about it, you’re gonna have to be the one who brings it up. That’s all I’m saying.”

* * *

Hope and Amy don’t get to hang out alone again until after New Year’s Eve. They see each other before then, at Annabelle’s post-Hanukkah dinner and Jared’s New Year’s Eve party, but they’re with a bunch of other people, and Hope finds herself busy catching up with everyone she ignored after high school. These Christmas break get-togethers have happened regularly, but Hope has never found a reason to attend.

The day after New Year’s Day, Molly goes to Big Sur with Jared and Gigi, and Annabelle is hanging out with Nick and Tanner. Amy invites Hope to come over to watch Netflix and eat Christmas chocolate.

It’s weird, being alone with Amy again, especially after her conversation with Molly at the Peabody Museum. Hope realises how concerned she has been at not coming on too strong, at not scaring Amy off, that it didn’t occur to her that Amy felt the same way. Molly was right; they couldn’t continue their friendship like this, not when there’s a major thing that has gone unexplained.

In between episodes of _ Brooklyn Nine-Nine _, which Hope half-heartedly dismisses as “copaganda”, Amy pauses her laptop screen. “Do you wanna keep watching?”

Hope stretches her arms above her head. “Nah, let’s take a break,” she says. She twists around on Amy’s floor so that she’s on her front, and stretches her back that way. “Why don’t we go for a drive?”

“Sure.”

Both of them are more inclined to go out here, in the mild non-winter of sunny LA, rather than back in New York, which apparently rang in the New Year blanketed with snow. Amy throws her phone, purse and a small, opaque pouch into her crossbody bag. They go downstairs for their shoes and jackets, and then they get into Hope’s sedan.

“You have a surprisingly sensible car,” Amy says.

“What were you expecting?” Hope asks.

“Something a little more adventurous, I guess. Like a motorcycle.”

Hope snorts. “My mum’s an ER surgeon and my dad is a physiotherapist,” she says. “No way in _ hell _they’d let me have a motorcycle.” She starts the car. “Where should we go?”

“Did you bring your camera?” Amy asks.

“Of course I did,” Hope says. “I don’t leave home without it.”

“Let’s go to the Japanese Garden.”

When they get to the Japanese Garden, Amy asks for Hope’s camera. Hope reluctantly gives it to her. 

Amy peers through the viewfinder and proceeds to aim the lens at Hope. “How do you focus?” she asks.

Hope stuffs her hands in her pockets. “Aw, come on, don’t take pictures of me,” she says.

“But where’s Netflix going to find photos of you in your twenties when you get your very own _ Abstract _episode?” Amy teases.

At this, Hope relaxes a bit. She doesn’t smile or pose in any way, but she doesn’t speak and lets Amy use the opportunity to take a couple of shots of her. Like everyone unpractised with a camera, Amy checks the LCD after each time she presses the shutter. “Looking good?” Hope asks.

“I may not be a photography major, but it’s not hard when the subject looks like you,” Amy says, with only a hint of a blush creeping up her neck.

“I don’t want an _ Abstract _episode, by the way,” Hope says, ignoring Amy’s remark, because she doesn’t want to fluster her further.

Amy raises an eyebrow.

“I want like a _ Harry Benson: Shoot First _-type deal. Feature-length.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “You’re dreaming big there,” she says.

Hope steps towards Amy, hand out for the camera. “Dreams are free,” she says. She takes the camera back.

Amy’s eyes are fixed on her. “Whatever happened to your jacket with the fringed sleeves?” she asks. 

“Oh, I donated it to Goodwill,” Hope says.

“What? You wore that thing all throughout high school,” Amy says.

“I felt like a change,” Hope says, shrugging. She remembers opening up her tiny closet in her freshman year dorm room and seeing that jacket on the first proper cold day of fall. She remembers putting it on and looking at the mirror and realising that the jacket was no longer _ her _ . She went straight to Goodwill as soon as she found a new jacket in a thrift store. “Where’s _ your _ jacket with all the patches?”

Amy runs her hands down the front of her patchless denim jacket. “When I started getting into activism at NYU, I thought I’d go for a more lowkey look. It started to feel a little gauche, looking like I was ready to go to a demonstration all the time,” she says. “I only wear the one with the patches at rallies and stuff.”

Hope laughs. “Protest fashion,” she says.

“That’s right,” Amy says. “Shame about the fringed jacket. You really got people’s attention with it.”

That’s exactly why Hope wanted to stop wearing it. 

They walk through the gardens, making comments on their surroundings. Hope takes photos on her camera. Amy does the same on her phone. She snaps a photo of Hope taking photos and posts it on her Instagram story. They stop by the waterfall. Hope turns dials on her camera, adjusting the shutter speed to get her desired effect on the photo. When she finally lowers the camera, she finds that Amy’s sitting on a bench behind her, her eyes focused ahead. She’s either looking at Hope or the waterfall.

Hope sits next to her. She remembers what Molly told her back at the Peabody. It’s been hanging in the air between her and Amy, even before Molly addressed it. She doesn’t know if it’s the right time to talk about. She doesn’t even know how to start. But she’s got to, because Amy probably never will. “I gotta apologise about something,” she finally says.

Amy’s frowning. “Huh? You about to criticise my photography skills?”

“No.” Hope shakes her head. “I got your messages, that summer I was travelling. I’m sorry I didn’t reply.”

“Oh.” Amy slouches forward a bit, obviously uncomfortable. “I just figured you changed your mind.”

“Huh?”

“About me.” Amy clears her throat. “About us.”

“I didn’t,” Hope says. She feels nauseous all of a sudden. “If anything, I changed my mind about _ me _.”

“I always wondered what happened,” Amy says. “Why you didn’t even _ read _the messages.”

“Basically, I had a bit of a breakdown.” Hope pinches the bridge of her nose. “Uh, I thought I was so fucking cool, you know? Eighteen years old, going off to Europe with just a backpack… I was supposed to be away for eight weeks. I came back after three. I guess,” she sighs, “I guess the loneliness just got to me. I was on the train to Florence and I just couldn’t stop crying. I got to my hostel and sorted my flights home once I got calm enough. Spent the rest of my trip money on rebooking fees.”

Amy doesn’t say anything. She just nods, encouraging Hope to continue.

“I built up this whole lone wolf persona, being all proud that I don’t need anyone, that I can do all of these things by myself,” Hope says. “But being on that trip, being truly _ alone _, I never felt so fucking scared. And lost.”

“Did- did something happen to you?” Amy asks gently.

“Nope.” Hope laughs bitterly. “It was fun, the first week or so. And then I started wishing that I had a friend with me, or that I was at least better at talking to people at my hostels. And then I started feeling ashamed of needing someone. It went downhill from there.” She blows out a shaky breath. This was difficult for her; she’s never talked about it to anyone except for her family and Annabelle. “I got your messages but I deleted them without even reading them because I didn’t want anyone to find out about what happened, what I did… And I don’t know, at that point, I felt like I would tell _ you _ anything. That’s why I just chose to ghost you.”

Amy puts a soft hand on Hope’s shoulder, and Hope feels like leaning into it, leaning further and further until she’s resting on Amy entirely. Amy takes a deep breath. “I feel like that’s not the end of the story,” she says.

“The first semester at NYU was shit, too,” Hope says. “I saw that all the time in high school being ‘too cool for school’ hasn’t taught me any essential social skills. I found everything hard and I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it.”

“You didn’t know how to ask for help,” Amy says.

“No, I did not,” Hope says. Everything’s spilling out of her now. She tells Amy about feeling like her whole schtick in high school was a lie, and she tells her about finding the fringed jacket and realising that she doesn’t want to be that girl anymore. She tells her about calling her parents, who direct her to her older brother, who starts video calling her regularly and talking her through staying on top of things, getting her shit together. By the second semester, she starts speaking up more during lectures and studio sessions, she starts getting invited out to coffee, she starts inviting people to go out to lunches and dinners. 

And then, finally, things started to fall into place.

“Thank you,” Amy says, when Hope finishes talking. “Thank you for telling me. It explains a lot.”

“I’m sorry for ghosting you,” Hope says.

Amy shakes her head. “It’s fine.” She squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them again. “No, I guess it’s not _ fine _ fine, but like, I understand, you know? I understand why you couldn’t confide in me. You did what you had to do, you made that space and time for yourself and you made those decisions for _ yourself _…” Amy’s hand moves from Hope’s shoulder to her hand. “Don’t think that you could’ve done anything differently. You and I still ended up here, after all. You’ve become one of my favourite people now.”

Hope finds herself grinning. “I feel the same about you,” she says. It’s only been a few months, but she’s fallen into this easy, devoted friendship with Amy. It’s something that wouldn’t have worked if everything else before hadn’t happened. She’s glad that Amy understands why she didn’t reach out to her back then. They were brought together by their hookup, that night of Nick’s party. There were expectations attached to their agreement to keep in touch. After what happened in Europe, Hope knew, on her end, that she was in no state to give Amy what she expected. It would have just been a giant mess.

Amy removes her hand from Hope’s, and pats her on the thigh. “Let’s go see the rest of this garden,” she says.

* * *

Hope’s in the darkroom the first three times her phone rings. She doesn’t check it until she leaves campus. All three calls were from the same person. She jabs at the screen to call the person back. “Hey, Annabelle,” she says.

“You busy?” Annabelle asks. “On a date or something?”

Hope rolls her eyes, even if Annabelle can’t see. “I was in the darkroom,” she says.

“Oh, you were in a _ dark _room! Who with?”

“You’re messing with me,” Hope says. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a phone call?”

“I got your invite to your senior show,” Annabelle says. “By _ post _! How quaint.”

“It’s for you _ and _Molly,” Hope corrects her. “I hope you guys are able to come.” The senior show’s not until the beginning of March, and it’s only a few days until February, so she thinks she’s given Annabelle and Molly plenty of time to prepare.

“Sure, I’ll check my schedule and get back to you. It looks exciting, Hope. Your last show, huh?” Annabelle actually sounds proud and sincere. “Are there any bigwigs coming?”

“For a converted socialist, you are strangely interested in people who overvalue art,” Hope says wryly.

“No ethical patronage in late capitalism,” Annabelle retorts.

“I’m not sure that’s how that saying goes,” Hope says. “Anyway, rich people can buy my art all the want, it’s not them I’m interested in.”

“Oh, but you _ are _interested in them being rich,” Annabelle says.

“No, I’m looking forward to talking to industry people more. Curators and gallery owners, you know,” Hope says. “I might be able to get myself a job somewhere.”

“Ew, don’t even talk to me about jobs,” Annabelle says.

“You must be drowning in offers,” Hope says.

“I am, but I don’t know how to break it to them that I have no intentions of working in finance,” Annabelle tells her.

Hope chuckles. “Sounds like your life is _ so _hard,” she says.

“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk about that right now,” Annabelle says. “So, are you taking a plus-one to your show? And is it going to be Amy?”

“Why do I need a plus-one?” Hope asks.

“Don’t _ artistes _get to parade their muse around?”

“Amy _ is _invited, just like you are. But she’s not my plus-one, because we don’t have plus-ones,” Hope says.

“Yes, but she’s your plus-one in your heart,” Annabelle says.

“What?” Hope sputters. “What the _ fuck _does that even mean?”

“Come on, you didn’t even deny it when I implied that she was your muse.”

Hope scratches the back of her neck. “That’s because it’s not true,” she says. “I worked out the concept for my senior show _ before _Amy and I even got back in touch with each other.”

“Hope, I’ve got the fucking brochure right here and this blurb that you wrote is about connections and boundaries and things time can’t touch,” Annabelle says. “She’s your muse without you even knowing it.”

“Fuck off,” Hope says, without any energy behind it. “You’re talking shit again, Annabelle.”

“You still like her, don’t you?” Annabelle asks. “And I think she likes you back. I watched the two of you when you were in town. There’s _ something _there.”

“Yeah, _ friendship _.”

Annabelle laughs. “Can you try being honest, Hope? ‘Cause you usually don’t hold back when it comes to other stuff, so I don’t know why you’re so, like, cagey about this,” she says.

“Fine.” Hope exhales. “I never stopped liking Amy. I think I like her more now than I did before. But things are different now. We’re _ properly _friends. That makes it complicated.”

“How?” Annabelle asks.

“It’s a bad idea to fall for a friend,” Hope says.

“Can’t relate,” Annabelle says. “I don’t fall for friends.”

“Well, it’s a bad idea, all right?”

“Says who?”

Hope frowns. “The movies and the songs and like, every TV show.”

“I hate to break it to you, Hope, but your life ain’t any of those things,” Annabelle says. “You can’t predict this stuff. In the real world, things work out differently, and we don’t know how it’ll go until we make the move.”

“By ‘we’, you mean me,” Hope says.

“Yep.”

“Do you really think Amy likes me back?” Hope asks, and feels immediately stupid for doing so.

“Does Amy _ like _ you?” Annabelle scoffs. “When you were in town, she would plate your food for you at dinner, but she wouldn’t do it for me or Molly. _ Molly _! You’re constantly on her Instagram stories. And didn’t she lend you her gloves that one time because you’d forgotten yours back at our place?”

“She’s just being nice,” Hope says.

“Again, you’d think she’d be nice to Molly first, but no,” Annabelle says.

Hope sighs. “I don’t really wanna think about this right now.”

“Am I getting too real for you, Carlin?” Annabelle asks. “Look, you like Amy, and there’s a very high likelihood that she likes you back. Odds are looking good. What’s stopping you?”

“As I said, it’s _ complicated _,” Hope insists. “This isn’t fucking game theory, Annabelle.”

“It’s not game theory, yes,” Annabelle concedes. “But it’s also probably a lot simpler than you think. I don’t know, Hope. I’m just messing with you a little bit, too. I understand that it’s scary and it’s complicated and that there’s risk involved… I talk a lot of shit, but you know, in the end, the choice is yours, and the consequences are yours to live with, too, for better or for worse.”

“I know.” Hope more than _ knows _. She’s painfully aware of it. If she takes a chance, she could risk getting hurt, either by being rejected, or somewhere down the line, if they break up. If she never takes the chance, then she could spend the rest of her life wondering about the what-ifs. She doesn’t think she could ever get over Amy. That’s the scariest part.

* * *

Molly and Annabelle get to New York the day before Hope’s senior show. Hope and Amy meet them outside their Upper East Side hotel and take them out to dinner. They congratulate Molly on her summer research gig at the University of Copenhagen. Molly had mentioned her application while they were visiting in New Haven. She had claimed that it was going to be the best way to spend her summer before starting law school at Georgetown.

“I’ve accepted a job offer as well,” Annabelle says.

“Oh, yes, tell them!” Molly claps excitedly.

“I’m going to be a junior policy analyst at the Department of Public Works in LA,” Annabelle says, grinning. “I applied to their graduate hiring programme and they were surprised, and kinda impressed that someone from _ Yale _wants to work in local government.”

“That’s so awesome! Congratulations!” Amy exclaims.

“Have you told your parents yet?” Hope asks.

Annabelle shakes her head. “I honestly don’t care what they think,” she says.

They end up back at Molly and Annabelle’s hotel room after dinner. Annabelle calls room service and springs for a bottle of champagne to share. They toast to Molly and Annabelle and to Hope’s senior show.

“I’ve got an announcement, too,” Amy says. She’s a year behind everyone else, so Hope can see the reluctance there, but _ she’s _still keen to hear what Amy has to say. She works harder than any of them do. Amy clears her throat, regarding the three expectant faces in front of her. “I’m staying in New York for the summer, but up in Rochester. The Teamsters offered me a summer job, under a team of lawyers and organisers.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Molly slaps Amy on the shoulder in congratulations. “Are you ready to get your Marx on?”

Amy grins. “You know it.”

Hope and Annabelle congratulate her as well.

It’s just past eleven PM when Hope and Amy finally say goodbye and leave the hotel. They walk out onto the street together. “So, Rochester, huh,” Hope says. The whole evening, she’s been thinking about how her friends are moving on and she’s starting to feel like she’s going to be left behind. Graduation is in a couple of months and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do after her apartment lease expires.

“It’ll be interesting,” Amy says. “I find that I really like getting in there, talking to people about their lives… I'll learn so much from them that way. Just like when I went to Botswana.”

“And it’ll be nice to be away from the big city,” Hope says.

“Yeah, I mean, I love all of this.” Amy gestures to the buildings towering over them. “But you're right, it'll be a good change.”

“No LA traffic,” Hope says.

Amy chuckles. “No New York craziness.” She gently bumps into Hope. “I’ll miss not getting to hang out with you over the summer, though.”

“Who knows? I might stay in New York, and I could come visit you in Rochester,” Hope says.

“Well, after tomorrow, some curator might offer to show your work in the Tate Modern, and you’d have to fly to London straight after graduation,” Amy jokes.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Hope says, laughing. “I’ll miss you too, though.” She says it sincerely. _ Too _ sincerely.

Amy stops walking. Their eyes meet. They’re so close together that Amy is having to look up at her. “Can you be out a little longer?” she asks. “Let’s go to my apartment.” Hope checks where they are and realises that Amy’s place is only a couple of blocks away. “I wanna talk to you about something.”

“Oh, sure.” Hope just needs to get to the venue early enough tomorrow to make sure that everything’s set up the right way. She couldn’t keep herself from asking: “Is it something bad?”

“No, no, of course not,” Amy says.

They reach Amy’s apartment, which she shares with two other students, who were already shuttered in their bedrooms when they arrive. 

Amy toes her shoes off, signals for Hope to do the same. “Let’s go to my room,” she says.

Hope follows Amy down the hallway, then closes the door behind her. Amy takes her jacket off and sits on the floor. Hope does the same. She watches Amy fidget, picking at the skin around her left thumbnail. Whatever burst of confidence she had to invite Hope here seems to be wearing off. “What’s going on?” Hope asks. “Is everything okay?”

“I, uh, I want to put this out there, because lately I’ve been feeling like I can’t go another moment leaving it unsaid,” Amy says. “I feel like,” she shifts uncomfortably, “I feel like there’s something going on between us.” At the lack of response from Hope, she rambles on, gesticulating as she does. “I mean, I could be totally seeing things from my biased point of view, and interpreting things wrong, but I guess this is just me being honest with you. I really love and appreciate the fact that we’re friends now, after all this time, but like, I still can’t help wanting more than that.”

Hope doesn’t know what to say.

“And like, I don’t expect anything.” Amy shakes her head empathically. “I don’t _ want _ to expect anything. But I consider myself more perceptive than most and _ this _doesn’t feel one-sided. But don’t worry,” a hint of panic slips out in her tone, “I won’t like, be wrecked if you don’t feel the same way, I just want a bit of clarity, I guess.”

Hope still doesn’t know what to say. What’s there to say when everything she’s worked to push out of her head, everything that visited her in her dreams anyway, is unfolding right in front of her?

“Oh _ god _, I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?” Amy asks. “Forget I said anything, actually.” She begins picking around her thumbnail again. “Oh fuck me,” she mutters. “You’re legitimately one of my best friends, Hope. Forget I said anything. I don’t want to mess our friendship up. Shit.” She fumbles around for her phone. “Do you want me to get you an Uber?” She’s on all fours now, trying to figure out if her phone’s in her bag or in her jacket pocket.

That’s when Hope finds her words. “Amy,” she says, which causes Amy to stop what she’s doing. “Relax.”

“Totally _ not _what you say when you want someone to relax,” Amy says. She sits back down anyway. “Is this the part where you let me down easy?”

“Amy,” Hope says again. “I- I feel the same way about you.”

Amy blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah, god, yeah,” Hope breathes out.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” Amy asks.

“Have I ever struck you as the type to make the first move?” Hope asks.

Amy frowns. “Yes?”

Hope chuckles. “Come on, even that night before graduation, it was _ you _who made the first move.”

“That’s still not an answer…” Amy says.

“Okay, well…” Hope takes a deep breath. “I thought that we’ve got a good thing going here, being friends. I thought that if I had said something, I would’ve made things awkward between us. So I understand where you’re coming from with that.” She pauses. “And there’s another thing.”

“What?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I guess I’m scared to let things change between us. Being friends with you is awesome, and I kick myself for not getting there sooner… And I thought I could live with my feelings if it meant we stayed friends.” Hope breaks eye contact with Amy, casting her gaze down to the carpeted floors. “Everything around us is changing. Annabelle’s got a full-time job, Molly’s going to fucking Copenhagen, and you’re gonna be in Rochester. I don’t know where I’m gonna be. I’m too freaked out to start anything.”

Amy looks disappointed. “So you don’t want to see where this goes,” she says, gesturing between the two of them.

What a fucking question. Hope is taken aback by it, even if she technically saw it coming. “It’s not that,” Hope says.

“Then what is it?” Amy demands.

Hope bites her lip. “You know when you’re getting everything you want and you’re not quite sure that it’s real?” she asks. “This whole thing that’s happening right now. It feels like that. I like having you around, Amy. I don’t want to complicate it.”

At this, Amy manages to laugh. “Hope, Jesus Christ, if we’ve both had feelings for each other all this time, then this was already complicated, don’t you see that? If we kept this all in, we’d have made a bigger mess of things.” She reaches out, takes one of Hope’s hands in hers, lightly squeezing it, so that Hope looks her in the eye. “Hey. Why don’t we look at this as trying to uncomplicate it?” she suggests.

“Amy…”

Amy’s eyes are glinting. “Do you wanna go out on a date with me?” she asks.

“Shit.” Hope runs her free hand through her hair. “Is this really happening?”

“Yep. So will you let me take you out to dinner?” Amy asks again.

“Yes,” Hope agrees, causing Amy to break out into a gleeful smile. “But promise me we’ll get the hell out of Manhattan for once. I wanna go somewhere _ special _.”

“I promise,” Amy says, still not letting go of Hope’s hand. “Now, should I get you an Uber?”

“You’re kicking me out already?” Hope asks.

“You’ve got a big day tomorrow,” Amy says.

Hope shrugs. “I can stay a little bit longer.”

* * *

Amy turns up at the gallery space and damn near takes Hope’s breath away. She’s wearing a navy blue dress with black tights and ankle boots, and her hair is in a side braid. She walks straight up to Hope, smiling. “What’s with that dopey look on your face?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Hope says. The night before, they got too wrapped up in conversation and she ended up staying the night at Amy’s apartment. Nothing happened between them, not even a kiss, and Hope chalks it up to the fact that both of them were still adjusting to this shift in their relationship. Boldly, she takes Amy’s hand and interlaces their fingers together. “Do you wanna see my photos?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Amy says.

As it was the final event for the graduating class of photography majors, the gallery space was bustling with their friends, family, professors and industry folks. Hand-in-hand, Hope and Amy make their way past people.

“Holy shit!” a voice erupts. “Are you guys _ holding _hands?”

“Hi, Molly,” Amy says.

Molly ambles up to them, holding a wine glass in one hand. She practically howls at the sight of Hope and Amy’s linked hands. “Wow, when did this happen?” she asks.

“Last night,” Amy replies. Hope has decided that it’s best if Amy does the talking.

“Wow,” Molly says again. “Annabelle, hey, Annabelle, come over here,” she calls out over her shoulder to Annabelle, who is inspecting one of Hope’s photos closely. Annabelle turns around and looks questioningly at Molly. “Come here,” Molly repeats.

Annabelle walks over, and finally notices Hope and Amy. “Oh, what the fuck,” she says in a low voice, before shrugging. “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

“Guys, this isn’t the show,” Amy says. “Come on, let’s have a look at Hope’s work.” She unlinks her hand from Hope’s, and places it on the small of Hope’s back, guiding her towards the walls where her prints are displayed.

A man’s voice cuts through the din: “Hope, there you are!” It’s one of Hope’s professors. He sees Hope’s friends, and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Uh, can I borrow you for a second?”

“Okay, sure.” Hope gives Amy a small smile before shifting away and following her professor, who is now standing beside a blonde woman wearing a sharp pantsuit.

The professor places a hand on her shoulder. “Beth, this is Hope Carlin, she’s the photographer you were asking about,” he says. He looks at Hope. “Hope, this is Beth Mackey. She works in the archives for the Tenement Museum.”

Beth Mackey shakes her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hope,” she says. “Your work really caught my attention.” 

“Thanks,” Hope says. “I’m glad you appreciated it.”

“I think you have an eye that captures the spirit of our message at the Tenement Museum,” Beth Mackey says. She pulls out a card from her inside pocket and hands it to Hope. “Get in touch with me, okay? I’d love to sit down and have a conversation with you. I think you could be doing something awesome for us.”

Hope takes the card and resists the urge to stare at it. She’s usually so good at keeping her cool, but so many things have been falling into place for her over the last twenty-four hours. “Thanks so much,” she says, trying her best to stay calm. “You’ll definitely be hearing from me.” She thanks Beth Mackey again, then thanks her professor, before excusing herself and making her way back to her exhibit.

Her exhibit is a series of twelve photos, displayed in a grid. Six of them are staged, taken on her film camera, and six are candid, taken on her digital camera, but she’s composed and edited them so it’s hard to tell which is which. The recurring theme throughout the photos is the sense of small intimacy in big situations. The subjects all had some sort of relationship to each other, whether familial or romantic. Hope’s favourite out of all of them is a photo she took at a climate strike in Times Square at the beginning of December.

The strike was well-attended. They all have been lately. But in the photo, in amongst the crowd, are two boys, probably fifteen or sixteen years old, bundled up in their puffy jackets and beanies. Both of them have their mouths open, joining in the chant, but they’re smiling, too. One of the boys has his arm loosely around the other’s waist. A simple, comfortable touch that conveyed multitudes.

Annabelle notices her first. “What was that?” she asks.

Hope subtly waves the card at her, before slipping it into the pocket of her blazer.

Annabelle grins and gives her a thumbs up.

Neither Molly nor Amy notice their interaction. They’re too absorbed in the exhibit.

“Holy shit, these are great,” Molly finally says. “Great job, Hope.”

“Thanks.” Hope looks at Amy, who’s smiling up at her. “Well, what do you think?”

“This is beautiful, Hope,” Amy says. She points at the photo of the two boys. “Hey, wasn’t that the rally we attended together? Just before we went to New Haven?”

“Yeah, I think so.” That’s probably another reason why Hope loves it so much. She puts her arm around Amy’s shoulders and pulls her close. There’s still so much to talk about, so much to sort out with this new stage in their relationship. The night before, they agreed that they’d always be clear on how fast or slow they wanted to take it, on what milestones they wanted to acknowledge, on what boundaries were appropriate to cross. But Hope’s not that anxious anymore, and it’s because they’re finally on the same page. “I’m happy,” she says quietly, so that only Amy can hear.

Her eyes still fixed on the photos, Amy replies: “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, writing this fic was like writing a marathon. You can see that I went full revisionist and wrote this as if my other Hope/Amy fic doesn't exist. I guess I wanted to put them in a situation where they're a little older and a bit further removed from the intensity of high school and high school emotions. I hope you enjoyed it. Drop me a comment!


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